


half in love with death

by thefudge



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, F/M, Fucked Up, Growing Up Together, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, no time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: AU. Young Mallory grows up in the vicinity of the Murder House and meets Michael before the Satanists arrive.





	half in love with death

**Author's Note:**

> So, a couple of things:  
> 1\. i've only watched AHS Apocalypse and don't have extensive knowledge about the show's lore, so errr apologies if some things are off-base  
> 2\. this all started because a really dedicated anon sent me a couple of requests regarding Michael/Mallory for my Christmas writing challenge and i was already pretty intrigued by the dynamic so here we are  
> 3\. this isn't a "redeem Michael" fic. not exactly.  
> also, Mallory's background on the show is ambiguous, but i remember the bit about her parents not being happy with her powers manifesting (even calling her a devil-worshiper, wink), so this is included in the story  
> 4\. i'm sad the show didn't explore them at all, and i want to put my own spin on it - buuuut just a heads-up that my version of them might not be your cup of tea? i mean i hope they are, lol, but if you know my writing then you know i'm a trashcan. anyway.  
> 5\. hope these kids are not too OOC. lemme know if i should continue!  
> (6. mallory is around 16-17 and michael is...a child-adult-demon. you know, like all teenagers.)

 

 

 

_At the same time, curiously, he gave her the feeling that death was not far from him._

_Perhaps he too was half in love with death._

_However that may be, the sense she had that death was not far from him made him ‘possible’ to her._

 

d.h. lawrence - the princess 

* * *

 

**

 

The house is too hot, even with all the fans blowing fetid air.

Eventually, he discards the ratty pair of shorts and just walks around naked all day. The spirits are too afraid he’ll send them into fiery oblivion to complain or even steal a glance.

This is how he first meets the young girl in the parlor.

Naked as the ungodly day he was born.

At first, he thinks she must be one of the many pathetic ghosts haunting the Murder House, so he does not even shield his immodesty as he strolls across the room.

The young girl freezes, eyes wide and jaw slack with shock.

She lowers her hands and the vase she was levitating falls to the ground and shatters.

Michael looks up, as if woken from a long sleep. He frowns at the bits of broken glass. He stumbles towards them, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Careful,” the girl speaks up. Her voice is thin, wary. “Your – your feet are bare.”

Michael looks down. He almost stepped on the glimmering shards. He wipes sweat from his brow and turns on her with a glare.

His snarl is petulant. “Did I give you permission to fuck around with my property?”

It’s technically his house. And she will burn for this.

The girl falters.  She lowers her eyes, happy not to stare directly at him. “I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I swear. I thought this house was abandoned.”

Michael finally takes in her appearance. Her light auburn hair falls down bare shoulders. She’s dressed in a gauzy white summer dress with little yellow daffodils scattered on the skirts. Her eyes are too wide for her face. Her lips are razor thin. She looks cool and collected in the middle of this boiling oven.

And he realizes a beat later that she isn’t a spirit. This is a living human girl.

Michael looks down at himself. He’s a boy who leaped from childhood to young adulthood without really understanding things like _identity_ , _personality_ , _self-image_.

For the first time in his brief life, he feels shame. Not the kind of shame that ran darkly through his veins every time Grandma Constance scolded him about all the dead bodies and the rose bushes.

No, this is a different kind of shame that has to do with his naked, sweating body, his tousled, unwashed hair and the dark shadows under his eyes.

This is self-consciousness. 

_Shit._

He picks up a moth-eaten coverlet resting on one of the armchairs and drapes it around himself. He’s never felt the need to cover before. He feels angry with himself. Maybe he’ll kill her after all, spirit or no.

But then the young girl speaks again, wringing her fingers nervously. “I can replace the vase. Or I guess I can fix it. If you want.”

Michael turns his head to the broken pieces. He suddenly remembers – she was _levitating_ it.

She’s not a spirit. So this means...

“You have powers too?” he asks, blazing blue eyes returning to her petite frame.

It’s the “ _too_ ” that makes the young girl pause. She gives him a questioning look.

Michael rolls his eyes. He lifts his hand and flicks his wrist. The magic is not native to him, not exactly. It’s like he borrows it from some secret, forbidden place. But he always enjoys showing off. The shards of glass start to rise into the air.

He considers throwing them at her, watching as each sharp bolt sinks into that summer-kissed skin.

But then the young girl does something he’s never seen anyone do before. Her mouth breaks into a smile. She _smiles_ at the sight of his powers. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t berate, doesn’t cower.

There’s a glimmer of excitement in her eyes.  And then she is lifting her own hands. And the shards of glass are remade into the vase it used to be. It lands back on the mantelpiece with a soft thud.

He admits he's piqued by her ability. So far, he's only ever destroyed things, but never put them back together.

“You’re like me,” she exhales in relief.

Michael frowns. He doesn’t want to corroborate this fact. No, he’s not like her or anyone else. He’s a selfish, unrepentant monster and he has become attached to his hateful label.

But she doesn’t seem to understand this.

“I thought I was alone in this horrible town…” she continues, scratching the side of her arm. “I actually came here to practice my powers away from my family. They like me to stay away, anyway. They …they’re afraid of me. They think I’m a Devil-worshiper.”

 _Devil-worshiper_. He doesn't know why that sends a soft murmur down his spine.

He frowns. “Your family is afraid of you.” That is a familiar refrain. 

“Of what I could do,” she elaborates, and then a shadow darkens her features. “Like I would _ever_ hurt them.”

“But what if you did?” he asks, cocking his head to the side, reliving a little film inside his head. “What if you couldn’t control yourself?”  

“That’s why I wanted to find a place to practice….to hone in my powers. To make sure I never hurt anyone.”

Michael blinks. Is that it? Is that the answer to his problems too? Just… _practice_?

The blood lust, the fiery rage, the need for destruction…could they be mastered if he practiced?

“Did you come here to practice too?” she asks timidly.  

“No…I live here. This is my house. I live by myself,” he says, wishing the statement didn’t sound so pathetic.

“All alone?” she wonders, matching his thoughts.

“Well…there are the spirits.”

The young girl stares at him. He really wishes he weren’t naked right now.

“Spirits?”

He’s already said too much. He could still kill her. He wouldn’t necessarily burn her soul. He could murder her and let her haunt this place…maybe that would be fun.

“I did see an older man by the window,” she says, when his silence stretches on for too long. “But I thought I was just imagining things.”

Michael flinches at the recent memory. Good ol' Ben, trying to set him right, trying to play the loving father to the perverted, wayward son, only to fail cosmically. They were both failures.

“He’s there,” he says eventually, nose wrinkling. “But don’t get up close to him when he’s by the window.”  

“Why not?”

Michael debates with himself for a moment. He doesn’t know why he’s being coy. “He – uh – he likes to touch himself.”

The young girl blushes a pretty, apple shade. She suppresses a giggle. “Yuck. I didn’t know spirits could do that.”

“Oh yeah, they do a lot of nasty things.”

She takes a step closer and lifts her hand. “I’m Mallory, by the way.”

His brain does a strange thing.  It always thinks ahead of him, always gauging and tallying, unraveling the intricate web of reality, often leaving him behind. Ben used to tell him he was brilliant, before he stopped talking to him.

He sees her name written above her head in spidery letters. Two branches shoot up from her name and meet in the middle showing…an apple tree being cut down by an axe.

The axe’s blade flickers with the word “ _malus_ ”. Latin for “ _evil_ ”. The tree flickers with the word “ _malum_ ”. Latin for “ _apple_ ”.

Malus – Malum – Mallory.

Her name is a meeting between old-fashioned wickedness and ancestral apples…what does it mean?

He doesn’t quite understand.

But he feels a sort of kinship.

She is about to lower her hand, dismayed. 

But he takes a step forward and grasps her palm in his. It is cool, despite the heat.

“I’m Michael.”

 

He tells her to wait for him while he shrugs on clothes. Michael half-expects her to be gone when he traipses down the stairs in a T-shirt and shorts, but she’s waiting obediently in the hallway. He likes that she didn’t go snooping.

Mallory fidgets a little bit as she takes him in.

He wonders if these aren’t the right clothes…Should he have taken a shower? Maybe he should’ve brushed his hair. He runs his fingers through it, but all he achieves is rendering the curls more unruly.

He catches Mallory blushing again.  

Is that good or bad? _Ugh_. He has a sinking feeling this is his first day being a teenager.

He shows her around the house, trying to point out the spirits who are teeming in every room, but they have hidden away in fear and they won’t show themselves.

Michael fumes.

“We have a _guest_!” he yells in a fit of rage. “This is no way to treat a guest!”

He thinks Grandma Constance would be proud of his resolve.

“It’s okay,” Mallory says, blanching a little. “I understand if they don’t want to see me. Maybe they’re scared of me.”

Michael blinks. He wants to laugh. Scared of _her_? He can’t help a mordant smile. “Trust me. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

He turns to the empty rooms. “You’d better come out unless you want to be _grazed_ from existence. Don't test me on this.”

Mallory frowns. “But…spirits can’t be killed.  They're already dead, aren't they?”

Michael winces. He's said too much again. He should've stayed quiet. He's so goddamn _stupid_.

But he can't help it. He wants to exult in his powers.

He shrugs, trying to affect nonchalance. “Oh, this would be _permanent_ death. It can be done. At least, _I_ can do it."

And instead of cowering in fear, Mallory cocks her head to the side. “Really? I didn’t know that…I’m kind of new to all of this.”

Michael is baffled. She’s not disturbed. No, in fact, she –

“Can you …teach me about it?” she asks, blinking up at him.  “I mean, is there a book I have to read?”

Michael tries not to get too excited. This girl isn’t afraid of him and she wants to _learn_ from him. The sudden rush he gets from it is like getting drunk for the first time. Intoxication. 

“I can show you,” he says, voice thick with yearning. “I can show you a lot of things.”

Mallory’s face lights up. “You’d do that?”

Michael smiles back. “I would. But only if we practice together.”

That’s what he needs. Practice. Control. Getting a handle on his powers. And then everyone would accept him.

“It’s a deal,” she says, and they seal it with a handshake.

The spirits stand in the shadows, watching them. They’d like to warn her, but they won't speak out for fear of him.  The poor girl doesn't know she’s just made a deal with the Devil.

 


End file.
